There is a fresh batch of strawberries in the house recently. The smell of sweetened, homemade jam hangs in the air thickly.

July 13th, a WEDNESDAY.

Yesterday a student defecated in his seat. The odor was indescribable. I was given the brunt of the blame as the mother called, later, with a barrage of aggressive words against the irresponsibleness of letting situations brew to such heights. Today they told me she’d been in tears. There is something about the whole of it that stings and subdues.

It is impossible to listen to music with soft strains. Instead, it must be drumming away, egging at my cranium, persistent and mildly abusing. Diverting. Silence will reduce me to snarls - or so I fear.

I am struck with a small case of breadshop-location snobbery. Having access of late to the resources of an affluent neighborhood has, sadly, dulled my tolerance of half-rate breads. It is highly noticeable, the difference between the quality of pastries at the Paris Baguette approximate to the institute, and the quality of those at the Paris Baguette in my district. Same Paris Baguette, worlds apart. To redeem the one in my neighborhood, however, there is a delicious little cheesey roll I discovered there recently that I can’t seem to find anywhere else.

Just when I thought yesterday couldn’t get worse, a mother of a student gifted me with a small rich chocolate cake.

Here are pictures of my vanilla latte receptacle. I order it from a sandwich shop I like to frequent for lunch.


3 years ago
  1. maroonlikerum posted this